This morning started with another encouraging speech therapy session. Today we had two speech therapists with us, including one who specializes in AAC (Augmentative and Alternative Communication) devices.

An AAC device is similar to an iPad, but it’s designed specifically to help people communicate. It has customizable folders and buttons that speak words and phrases aloud, along with built-in therapy tools, the ability to draw, take photos, and save personalized buttons for things that matter most to John. It gives him another way to communicate when speaking is difficult and writing isn’t enough.

Right now, writing is still very hard. The first word or two often comes out correctly, but after that the letters become jumbled. Even when the message is understandable, it takes time. The hardest part isn’t always the writing itself—it’s that conversations move so quickly. Most of us instinctively fill silence with words, often before John has had the chance to finish what he’s trying to say.

Next week we’ll get to trial one of these devices, and we’re hopeful insurance will eventually approve one for him. In the meantime, we’ll also be experimenting with one of the speech apps on his iPad so he has more ways to communicate with family when they visit.

After therapy, we celebrated with a stop at Rocco’s Donuts. John picked cookies and cream, and I couldn’t resist the maple bacon. Then we headed to Market Basket for groceries.

One of those small moments that stays with you happened at the seafood counter. While John was writing down what he wanted, the gentleman helping us noticed and quietly began signing to him. He told me his sister had been deaf and that although he hadn’t signed in years, he remembered a little. John smiled. I didn’t have the heart to explain that hearing isn’t the challenge. What mattered was that someone saw John struggling to communicate and instinctively reached out in the only way he knew how. It was an incredibly kind gesture.

When we got home, my plan was simple: take a short break, then help John program one of the communication apps before his brother, niece, and Roberto visit this weekend.

John had a different priority. He wanted to go outside and poop scoop the yard. He has vistors coming tomorrow – and that means cleaning!!!

Before his stroke, that would have made perfect sense. John has always taken enormous pride in our yard, our home, and making people feel welcome. We spent years hosting pool parties, cooking for friends, grilling, and making our home a gathering place.

But life has changed.

What followed was an argument that neither of us wanted. Screaming in sounds and throwing notepads. Arghhhhhhs and rage with no words, and me crying hysterically. It was raw and ugly.

I tried to explain that visitors aren’t coming to see whether the yard is perfect. They’re coming to spend time with John. Every ounce of energy we have needs to go toward his recovery, not preparing to host. He is frustrated and ashamed. He wants to host, he wants to present well. He wants to bring people out to the pool and to enjoy themselves.

That may be one of the hardest parts of all of this.

I have to be the one telling the person I love that the things he always took pride in no longer have to come first. I have to be the bad guy and tell people to keep the visits short and calm, repeating myself endlessly until the message is heard. I hate this. I hate it with a passion.

All of this is breaking my heart.

I’d like to gently share something with everyone who has asked how they can help.

The greatest gift you can give us isn’t bringing expectations from the “before” times.

Please don’t expect a spotless house.

Please don’t expect food.

Please don’t expect us to entertain.

Come for John.

Give him time to search for words.

Be comfortable with silence.

Help him practice communicating.

Laugh with him.

Treat him like himself, even if getting the words out takes a while.

Those visits aren’t social gatherings anymore. They’re part of his rehabilitation.

Your presence matters far more than whether the lawn is perfect, the house is clean, or lunch is on the table.

We’re both doing everything we can just to keep our heads above water. Some days that means speech homework gets done. Some days it means laundry gets folded. Some days it means neither of us has anything left. That’s where I am today. Feeling broken and unable to crawl out of my hole of sadnees, all because of some stupid dog poop.

Our priorities have changed completely, even though the rest of the world has understandably kept moving.

We’re learning that recovery isn’t just about healing a brain. It’s about letting go of the life we had, one piece at a time, while trying to build a new one together.

…and its very, very, very freaking hard.